Lofty Thoughts

Chicken Business

2007-01-22T12:37:00.000-08:00

Saturday I met with a great group of writers at the North Canton Public Library. I was a guest workshop leader with the Greater Canton Writers’ Guild, where I spoke on the topic of Writing Creative Nonfiction.

Creative Nonfiction is a genre that combines the creativity of fiction and poetry writing with the research and fieldwork of a journalist. The genre has been around for years in the form of essays and magazine articles and is often the style used for memoir. The writer of creative nonfiction usually writes in first person out of their own experience. Their quest for knowledge might lead them on an “adventure.” One source called this “immersion.” Other techniques the writer uses to gather information might be interviews, reading and research. Many creative nonfiction pieces have an element of subjectivity. so in that way they aren’t exactly like journalism.

The best creative nonfiction includes personal experience but goes well beyond the individual and personal to look at a broader topic that impacts many of us. The piece will be reflective since the writer must distill and shape her experiences, memories and things she’s learned in the course of her “adventures.”

In our class we took time to write short personal experience sketches and then talked about how they could be a springboard for a larger creative nonfiction piece. It was interesting to see the potential as we listened to several class members read their pieces. I didn’t read mine to the class but you can see it below.

Here is what I wrote during our class:
I had just finished putting eight large hair rollers which I secured with large bobby pins in my damp shoulder length hair. “Girls, don’t you think it’s about time to get out to the chicken house?” Our mother rarely gave any direct orders but her questions were usually enough to send us on our way. My sister and I grabbed our barn coats. Mine was an oily, gold colored reversible parka. The scent of chicken house lingered in the corner of the garage where it hung. I put a clean nylon scarf over my head and double-wrapped my curlered hair.

Dad was waiting with the egg carts filled with filler flats and a full spray bottle of mineral oil. He and I started on the left side, my sister went by herself to the right. We pushed the cart down the aisle and grabbed handfuls of white eggs from the wire trays where they rolled immediately after the white H&N leghorns had laid them. Some were still warm—a couple were damp. The noise in the place was cheerful with the cackling of several thousand hens. They lived three to a cage and spent their lives doing nothing but eating, drinking, laying eggs and talking to us when we came by. Dad said they were happy and I never doubted that a bit.

Our dogs, Toby and Trixie, who were a mix of golden retriever and cocker spaniel, could wander in the chicken house since the birds were all in cages. They followed us down the aisles snuffling up the soft-shelled eggs that slid through the wire. They had the shiniest coats of any dogs in the neighborhood.

Dad and I worked fast and took pride in our ability to grab up to four or even five eggs in one hand. We dropped them into the filler flats, points down, and when a flat was full we sprayed them with mineral oil. The oil sealed the pores and helped them stay fresh longer. Then we grabbed a new flat, gave it a half turn and placed it on top of the first one. We continued down the row with Dad and me facing one another piling the flats of eggs as we went. When the cart was full, we pushed it into the cooler and grabbed a new one.

The smell in the caged layer house was “intense” to say the least. I always worried that my hair smelled of the chicken house. That’s why I wore two scarves. But gathering eggs was my first job and it provided our family a good livelihood on a 48 acre farm in the 1950s and 1960s. I didn’t know many of the realities of agribusiness and probably none of us thought much about what was happening to small farms—or what would become of them as the years went by and “progress” and “technology” was applied to what my dad liked to call the “chicken business.”

Note to my readers: Here my musings stop for now, but my interest in this topic is building. Will I go out and immerse myself in the issues of egg production, packing and marketing? Why are few of these “caged layer operations” as my dad called ours, no longer in production? Where do supermarket eggs come from today? There is so much I don’t know and the lines above only hint at a beginning. Will I brave the sights, sounds and smells I’m bound to encounter if I set out to find the truth about the scrambled eggs on my breakfast plate? Maybe. Perhaps.
Lofty Thoughts

Other Arrangements

2007-01-06T08:45:00.000-08:00

I do most of my writing in the loft of our house. We have one of those open floor plans with a vaulted ceiling, and an open staircase. There are Palladian windows to the front of the house but my desk sits on the upper level directly in front of an east window. From here, I can look out over the woods. On a winter’s day like this one, I have a view of the fields beyond the woods and the neighboring farmland and buildings. At night, I catch a glimpse of the lighted steeple of the church where I worship.

The condition of my loft suggests to me the condition of my soul. The overall impression is chaos. Last summer the loft became more and more cluttered as I spent time in the garden and preserving food. It was a season of life that didn’t lend itself to reading and writing. The papers, books, notebooks, file folders and odd debris piled up on the floor, tables, desk and even on the chairs in my writing space.

“I should clean up this mess,” I said to myself more than once. And then one time I heard a still small voice say, “I’m here with you. Sit in this mess and listen to Me for once.”

“Huh?” I asked. “You’re okay with this mess?”

“Yup!” The Goddess was grinning at me.

“Okay,” I said. I felt uncomfortable and relieved all at once as I un-piled my meditation chair and sat in it. I sat staring at the mess. Then I closed my eyes. It was hard to sit in that messy room day after day but I disciplined myself to do it. Occasionally I moved a pile from one place to another but I mainly sat there I with my deep breathing, meditation, prayers and holy reading. I said “Yes” to the mess and let it be there.

I got to a place of strange comfort with the messy piles and forgot to judge it most of the time. I watched new books of poetry and inspiration pile up as I returned from conferences and meetings but felt little need to read them. Folders from the latest workshop lay abandoned on top of an unfinished book (I have five!). The closet spilled over and I had to rummage to find instructions for changing the printer cartridge.

But at 55 West & Co. where I work part time, I was learning that I like to arrange things. One day I stacked up a couple dozen small stands into a pleasing, eye-catching display. Next, I tackled the front windows to create an almost storybook tableau. At home, I painted the dining room walls with texture, moved furniture and hung new pictures. I decorated for Christmas and created lovely scenes in our great room. The loft was messier than ever.

In December, a Carolina wren took shelter in the Christmas wreath on our front door. One evening she flew inside and knocked a small object from a shelf in the loft. It hit my computer keyboard and broke the comma key. The next day, I dumped a basket of old magazines and began filling it with odd remainders from my journey--books I no longer wanted, some inspirational bric-a-brac, decorations that don’t inspire me now. I took them to “Gypsy Sue” who will pass them on to people who can use them.

I gathered my overstuffed notebooks onto a shelf and filled a garbage bag with paper and old magazines. I moved some furniture in my loft but stopped short of painting the walls orange. (Orange is the color of creativity; that waits for another time). The desk remains in front of the window.

At work it seems when we move stuff around, it sells. New stuff comes in. Just when I think the place looks great, some furniture sells and other arrangements are required. In the “lofty” place at home, I notice that God is less of a cleaning service than I’d once suspected. The longer I sit here, the more I think getting messy is even part of the whole plan. I might be troubled by a mess but The Holy Homemaker isn’t as bothered as I once imagined. She stretches out her hand and invites me to rest. “Sit here in this mess with me,” She says. “Later—after you and I have spent some quality time together—we’ll make other arrangements. “

Lofty Thoughts

Incense? Not a Problem!

2006-11-30T15:53:00.000-08:00

The catalogues telling me what to buy have been arriving daily for the past few weeks. Most of them go unread into the shiny new trashcan in the kitchen. I did take a few moments to look at a catalogue from a company peddling religious icons and other religious wares. On a back page, I read this statement: “We can solve your incense problems.”

I hadn’t been aware of having any incense problems but it got me to wondering about incense. On my first day at the new job at 55 West & Co., Stephanie, the store’s owner, went through the list of procedures for opening the store each day--such things as wiping down the marble ledges in the exterior entrance, turning on the lights and music and . . . lighting the incense.

Stefanie said customers have varied reactions to the Nag Champa incense made in India. Nag Champa is often used in cathedrals (not without problems, apparently!) The pungent odor reminds some customers of high times in the dim city apartments of their wayward youth. As I’ve already said, so far, I’ve had no “incense problems” to speak of myself.

At 55 West & Co. we burn Sai Baba Nag Champa. According to their literature, it is enjoyed by millions and is the most popular incense in the world. Nag Champa is a hand-rolled blend of highly fragrant rare gums, resins, powders and pure Mysore Sandalwood Oil. It has been “appreciated for decades as an exceptional quality incense for deep calming meditation and for creating sacred spaces.” The scent of it will linger for in your room for hours.

Soon after I began my job, we ran out of the little sticks of incense and resorted to re-lighting the small remaining sticks left in the jar of sand behind the counter. Everyone breathed a gigantic sigh of contentment the day we received a huge shipment of Nag Champa and the store again smelled the way it was supposed to smell. Nag Champa adds something indefinable yet intriguing to the atmosphere at 55 West & Co. Stephanie sometimes describes what goes on in the large rambling two-story building in Millersburg as the “55 West Experience.”

Incense is only part of the “55 West Experience.” Other elements include the interesting and often funky music constantly playing on the stereo, the eclectic mixture of old and new home furnishings and apparel, and the hand-crafted, off-beat and interesting wares for sale throughout. Many visitors can’t resist the lure of “Salvage Central” in plain view but off limits to customers. There Stefanie and her crew give old tables, cupboards and chairs a quick coat or two of thin paint pastel colored paint. The creaking staircase with two landings leads to another whole floor of equally interesting stuff.

The place is a sensory feast and now that I’ve been working there a few weeks I’ve begun to unravel the mysterious draw the place has for me. According to Stefanie, people come back because of the entire atmosphere, including the friendly, energetic staff, and the relaxed ambience, the quirky merchandise and the strange aura of creative energy that seems to hover in the air of the store. She didn’t mention the dog, but I suspect some come in just for the chance to give Stef’s dog, Otis, a pat on the head as they walk by the counter.

As I listened to my new boss talk about her philosophy, I felt relief that she didn’t use words like “marketing,”, “customer service” or “retail sales.” In the end, her message was about the same as the words of one of my first employers, a newspaper editor whose parting shot was “Just be interested in other people and you’ll do fine.”

Maybe incense is the opposite of nonsense, I don’t know. At times the store takes on the qualities of a sacred space. It is not so far-fetched as one might imagine—the store as a cathedral. Here are objects artfully placed; light shines onto surfaces, people kneel to peer inside a cupboard, or raise their arms to lift something. There is a friendly welcome, someone willing to listen and care about your life. There is music, energy and respite from both the drudgery and madness of everyday living. In addition, there is that soothing scent, so indescribably aromatic, exotic and mysterious that it seems to awaken one to the sublime.

I have considered, this Advent season, sneaking into our church each Sunday at 8:00 and lighting a stick of Nag Champa. Then I would be singularly responsible for solving our “incense problem” something few people even know exists, unless they’ve lately perused a religious catalogue.
Lofty Thoughts

Work History

2006-11-02T16:35:00.000-08:00

I'm still catching up on a back log of life that flew past so fast I didn't take the time to chronicle it. Reflection is a necessary part of life for me and happens whether I get around to writing the reflections or just reflect in my head. A recent reflection related to my work history and the latest development in that department.

After almost two years of unemployment (by choice) I saw an ad for a job that seemed like it was a good fit for me because of past work history. It involved working with a church agency in communication and marketing. "Here I am, send me," I told God. "That is, if you can use me and want me there..." I filled out a lot of paperwork, got references and waited. In a few weeks I learned they'd decided not to hire after all due to a too-tight budget.

By now the idea of a part-time job sounded good to me, so I opened the newspaper and read the want ads, which I do sometimes just for entertainment (strange, but remember, I'm a novel writer looking for ideas, too). Under General Employment I read this ad: "Looking for outgoing creative people for P/T & F/T positions in fun new boutique in Berlin. Ideal candidate will thrive in a high energy and constantly changing environment . . . . Stop in at 55 West & Co., Millersburg for application."

It was this last bit that got my full attention-- the "boutique in Berlin" wouldn't ever cut it otherwise. But, 55 West & Co. is a store I discovered a couple of years ago. The owner, Stefanie Kauffman, is the epitomy of "outgoing, creative, high-energy." She has amazing charisma and her store is full of old cupboards, retro tables, and a variety of aging home furnishings, along with interesting accessories and other quality products that reflect a philosophy of sustainable living with style.

The day after I read the ad I went to see Stefanie. I filled out an application. She was seemingly thrilled and flattered that I'd want to work for her. I didn't tell her, but I think there are probably people who would pay HER for the privilege of hanging out at 55 West. The ancient two-story store building used to be Maxwell Brothers Clothing store for men. It has original tin ceilings, brick and plaster walls and wood floors. There is a hand-painted sign that says "Salvage Central" and behind that, a workbench and usually several dirty and scratched tables, shelves, you name it. A long wooden staircase of twenty some steps and two landings leads to the second floor where there are shelves with a gazillion throw pillows, hand-made rugs, and a large variety of Woolrich clothing. There is lots of stuff everywhere, too numerous to mention.

Stefanie called a few days later to invite me to an interview held in the office/workroom which defies description. I plunked down on a Victorian era sofa covered with canned-pea green velour and told Stef and her assistant, Jamie, (both of them are very thin and much younger than me) among other things that I think her store is a living metaphor for life--all of us with our dents and scratches and peeling paint, and that the restorations are another reminder that we still have value and in fact, we're treasures.

Apparently my interview was successful because I basically named my preferred hours (no evenings or weekends) but my new boss did extract a promise from me that I'd work one Saturday during October, my choice. She also was thrilled to learn that in a former (work) life I'd been a seamstress.

My new job is one of several I've had over the course of my life, beginning with a job gathering eggs in my dad's "caged layer operation." I've also taught third grade in Newfoundland, taught sewing in a fabric store, sold shoes and edited a church paper. My longest tenure was at the mental health board where I worked for ten years doing community relations.

During the past few weeks a lot of these memories have come flooding back, and some of my well-honed skills are back at the game. The "homes" of my two most recent jobs have both moved to new quarters. The other week I sat in a meeting at the conference office where I hadn't been for probably ten years. The pictures I'd loaned them were still on the walls there, but when they moved two weeks later, they returned them to me.

A few days after that, I went to an open house for the mental health board. They've moved into a great new office building thanks to the work of Julie, my replacement, who convinced them they were much too crowded where they were. (She was right). They're in a completely different part of town now, too. I signed up for the doorprize they were giving away--a free massage. This was the first time I would actually be eligible to sign up. Before, I was the one to find these prizes and call the winners. This time, low and behold, I WON!

These moves make me realize the truth of the saying "Life moves on." There is just a tiny bit of nostalgia as I think about these places I once worked and of course the friends I made in both jobs will always remain my friends.

I think of my life sometimes as a big adventure. I am constantly surprised by the things God brings into my path--and the people. I thought of that last evening when Stef, my boss, invited the entire staff to the store for our own private pre-holiday sale. After a bit of a sales talk which was given in her own zestful style, she sent us upstairs to the Victorian sofa. I along with my dozen or so new "sisters" at 55 West decked ourselves out in outlandish costumes from the store's jewelry counter and vintage clothing stock. I wore a "mink" stole, a felt and satin trimmed hat with a veil and earrings that are three sizes bigger than any I ever dare to wear. Stef's dog, Otis was in the picture too and the photographer actually got a shot where it looked like he was kissing her.

The next day I told Stef that driving home I couldn't believe I'd found my way to this store where incense and music and friendship create something that is--well--indefinable. She gave me her characteristic grin, the charismatic smile and said something that made me feel good, like there was no other place on earth for me to be but in this funky (word she says she uses too often ). place. Her new slogan is: "quite possibly the coolest store on the planet."

I am still trying to wrap my mind around a God who looked at me and said, "No, no, I don't need you to market Sunday school materials or work in mental health, I've got this other job for you at a funky store...Is that okay? And by the way, you can play dress up and arrange furniture and talk to lots of interesting people. Just let my love show while you're there if you can manage that, okay?"

"Yeah, sure, God. . . whatever You say. "

Quite possibly, I'm working for the coolest God in the Universe!

Lofty Thoughts

Summer Backlog

2006-10-25T05:56:00.000-07:00

Summer Backlog

It’s been far too long since I’ve “blogged.” All I can say is that it is summer and the garden and travels are keeping me away from the computer. Excuses, excuses! For awhile there I was over-run with garden produce, especially tomatoes. Now I have plenty of pizza sauce stored in the basement. Lots of other stuff too!

We went to Virginia to visit Laura and Brandon and see their new home awhile back. They bought a brand new townhouse with lots of stairs. On the middle floor it even has two staircases. You might say it has a built-in stair climber for exercise. It will be great to visit them and not have to stay in a motel. While we were there, Laura and I made grape juice. We also visited a winery, a flour mill, a pottery, an herb farm and the Cyrus McCormick farm where we saw the actual blacksmith shop where 16-year-old Cyrus created the first reaper.

A few days after we got home the great spinach scare was in the news. I had to gloat over my own freedom from bagged spinach and a lot of other supermarket wares. Nearly everything we eat lately is coming from my own sources—either our garden, or places that I am well acquainted with. We are mostly vegetarians during the summer since everything tastes so wonderful straight from the garden. We supplement the vegetable and fruit diet with some seeds and nuts, grains and beans, and eggs and cheese from our local farmers. It sounds almost romantic, doesn’t it?

I do feel a kind of romance about my life. But growing and putting away crops is sometimes difficult, time consuming work. That was made quite clear to me on a hot day when I volunteered (or rather begged) my neighbors to let me help make hay. Nine-year-old Edna was learning to drive the team, Rex and Ron, while her father, Reuben, loaded hay. I talked them into letting me learn too. It was a bumpy ride around the field on a wagon with no rubber tires. The horses weren’t as easy to manage as I imagined. Esther suggested they might not be used to the chatter between Edna and me. I was surprised how touchy they were to the tension on the lines and the amount of skill it takes to manage two lines for each horse. I also helped load bales onto the elevator. My neighbors don’t bale the hay until they take it back to the barn. That seems an odd rule and adds an extra step in the whole process but it’s their way. Reuben only mows and dries a few loads each week since he has another job off the farm.

I like the idea of small farms and fields and home-grown food. The old ways of crop rotation and the concern for tending the land is an important value that I saw in my parents and grandparents although we never really talked about it in quite that way. I grew up in an era when farmers were making a transition to being more businesslike in their work, which I admit provided a decent living for us. Now I am more aware of other issues, including the damage to the earth thanks to agri-business and the “experts.” I suppose all the revolutions started with Cyrus McCormick who was tired of swinging the scythe to cut a field of grain. I cringed to see a field of no-till that had been wiped clean of vegetation courtesy of Round-up on the way down the lane to visit old Cyrus’ farm, located near the Virginia Ag research center.
There is a good mini-history of the agricultural revolution written by Art Bolduc in the summer issue of Farming Magazine. It was fun to see the home place of Cyrus on our trip to Virginia and then read that history and see the old ways still being used locally. But my trip around the hayfield made me realize the reason farmers want those labor saving implements.

This winter I’ll be baking with the stone ground flour I bought at Wades Mill in Raphine, Va. It is far superior to other flour and I have a stash in my freezer for holiday whole wheat rolls. It was surely been a good summer in so many ways. Maybe sometimes the best thing I can do is suspend my need to be an observer of life and dive into the real thing for a spell. Guess that’s my best excuse for being so negligent here on the blog.

Car-ma!

2006-07-24T08:12:00.000-07:00

Three years ago I said goodbye to my 1993 blue 4-door Honda Civic. It was the first car I’d ever purchased brand new. I drove it for ten years and 110,000 miles with no problems at all. I sold it to a college student, the first person who stopped by to see it after I’d posted signs in the windows. I took a pro-active approach to selling and wrote “Buy This Car.” It worked, but I had to include lessons for her in driving a standard shift.

I replaced the Civic with another one; they’re great on gas mileage. I briefly considered a CR-V, possibly a “previously owned vehicle” as they like to call them at College Hills Honda. We ruled that out in favor of another new car. One phrase kept going through my mind: “My next car is going to have a sun roof.” For some reason I had been saying this to myself for months—possibly years. A sporty black Civic on the lot had a bunch of fancy extras—including the required roof. I still remember where I was standing when I spied the black Civic Coupe and decided that was my car. The salesman, Ernie, had a bit of a frown and my significant other asked, “A two-door? Are you sure?”

But, I was sure. I thought of the times I’d taken passengers to work-related meetings and the two-door excuse suddenly seemed appealing; selfish of me, in retrospect. The coupe looked even sportier. I had just applied for a job in Holmes County (which never actually materialized) and had a fleeting mental picture of myself cruising down a certain shady winding road to that new job in the new car. A week after I drove it home, I suddenly had an attack of environmental remorse—I could have gotten a Civic hybrid and the only reason I didn’t consider it was that it didn’t come with a sun roof!

The day we bought that black Civic, a certain woman who isn’t, let’s say, my favorite friend of all time, happened to be browsing on the car lot. She popped off with a comment that had no basis of truth but implied I’d slept in a tent with a strange man on a bike tour we both were on together. (Long story I can’t go into here!) My Significant Other needed some further explanations after that one! As it turned out, this was only the beginning of a lot of future bad Car-ma still in store.

About a week later, I took my new car to visit my family. I should say, “show off my car;” I was still in new car heaven. On the way, I decided to go through a car wash to make sure it looked completely fabulous. I had already noted how quickly black gets dirty. I’d been forewarned about that too by people in the know. I drove into the car wash, which had one of those tracks and somehow I got my tire stuck between the track and the washing mechanism. I sat there under the soapy shower trying to figure out what to do. Finally, I blew my horn until another customer came to see what was going on. In the end, I had to call AAA. A tow truck driver jacked up the car and eased it out. Otherwise, in the very first week, my new car would have had a nasty scrape on the left front fender.

I averted that scrape, but as the weeks and months wore on, I seemed to be prone to small mishaps. Once someone side-swiped me in a Wal-mart parking lot and left some white paint on the drivers’ side door. Another time I got too close to the mailbox and skinned the back of the mirror. I backed into the woodpile at home and suffered an attack by a prickly bush that encroached into the first parking space in the lot at work. (It was the parking space reserved for late-comers, I realized afterward.) Keeping the car clean was a losing battle. The black interior didn’t look so much sporty as linty, with stray blond hair and crumbs of food scattered over the seats.

When our grandchildren rode with me we had to have a lesson in entering the backseat. Then a new grandchild came and I had the added fun, on a few occasions, of trying to secure a car seat from the front entry. I couldn’t put my purse or a bag from the store in the backseat without sliding it forward. I became a master at wrestling large items into the car, including 6 ft. folding tables, display racks, flea market finds and Berlin Flyer wagons.

The crowning moment of humiliation came on a day when I was traveling to Holmes County on Rt. 241. My mind was elsewhere—on my future announcement of resignation from my job. Then I wondered if I had lunch money in my purse and I looked down to reassure myself. At that exact moment, the cement mixer truck in front of me slowed down and signaled to turn onto a road I didn’t even know existed. When I looked up, I had rammed into the trough that extends from the back of his truck and lost all control of my final destination.

I came to rest unhurt. The car was wedged against a giant maple tree and for a fleeting moment I hoped the car was “totaled.” An hour or so later, I drove it to AutoWorks in Holmesville where it was eventually given a $7000 beauty treatment. I rented a four-door Civic that didn’t even have automatic windows—let alone a sun roof--and wished I could just keep that car.

I drove the black Civic Coupe many more miles after the accident. On an icy morning, I skidded into a curb and drove the car for weeks with it out of alignment. When I belatedly realized what had happened I had to buy four new tires.

On hot days, I’d open the sun roof and turn on the air. More times than I can count, I stuffed things into the back seat and juggled cargo and passengers. One evening I drove out on a country road to do an errand. I was having trouble finding the house number and when I turned around in a driveway, I backed the car over the culvert. There I was, stranded with the left front tire wedged in the ditch and the back right tire high in the air. It was enough to make me cry, (literal meaning).

I began talking about selling the Civic Coupe. I knew it didn’t make sense from a financial viewpoint. You always lose appreciation when you sell a relatively new car. A car you buy new and service regularly is a known quantity when compared to a “pre-owned vehicle.” My Significant Other kept driving home these points with a phrase I must have heard two dozen times. “If you sell it you’re going to ‘take a beating,’ he kept emphasizing. (Why do men persist in using such violent language?)

What he didn’t understand is that I’d already taken quite a few beatings as a result of owning this car. I defied conventional wisdom and printed from my computer files the “Buy This Car” sign. A day or two later, the neighbors four doors down drove up in their large pickup truck to take a look. They said my Civic Coupe was the perfect solution to their need for a car that would get good gas mileage. It was a done deal in no time.

Less than a week later, when I was getting our other car serviced, I wandered over to the Pre-owned Vehicle section and asked to talk with Ernie. He was more than willing to show me a “very clean and well-maintained” 2000 CR-V. I took it for a spin. The things he said about it were all the things he’d said three years earlier when I’d looked. His wife drives one and loves the many convenient features. There is even a built-in picnic table. This one also had both a CD player and a tape player so I could still listen to the old favorite cassettes. It also had shiny wheels and a bug deflector. The previous owner was a schoolteacher who took “meticulous care” of it and traded it in for a new one.

I took a real beating when I bought it. It is three years older than the car I sold; it doesn’t have power door locks or a sun roof. It also has twice as many miles on it. But I’m excited about being able to haul cargo and passengers with ease. It isn’t easy to live with constant reminders of past mistakes, and that’s what I had to do nearly every time I got into the black Civic Coupe. My son-in-law called it “buyer’s remorse.” I called it bad Car-ma.

It may be poor judgment, irrational, and silly of me, but from the driver’s seat in the 2000 CR-V, it makes perfect sense to ditch bad Car-ma and replace it with positive Car-ma. There is a better ride ahead for me, I’m sure. When we wrote down the “Vin Number”—the number assigned to every vehicle manufactured—I noted that my silver “certified Pre-owned CR-V” had a number that started with my initials: JHLR . . . .The R was there for my Significant Other—his first name initial. He needed to know this was good Car-ma. The transaction, I predict, will please both of us and will come to have a meaning far beyond the initial and completely obvious financial flagellation.

Right At Home

2006-07-07T19:58:00.000-07:00

Lofty Thoughts

Right At Home

It would make a great magazine article: "Gardening with my Amish Neighbor." Strangely, most of the time, I completely forget how special my experiences are; I am too busy fighting off potato bugs with Esther and hacking weeds at the other end of the row she started working on while I was still trekking down her lane. I take my time and admire the clover field to my right or the wild cherry trees that drop a generous birdie feast over the gravel to my left.

I have lost count of the years I’ve known Esther. Once we were strangers who lived across the road from each other. Then one winter I invited her over for tea and asked if I could pay her to grow some vegetables for me—I explained the concept of a CSA (community supported agriculture). By the time I quit my job in Wooster, I counted among my newly acquired blessings that of having more time to work in “our” garden.

This morning I hoed some of our 28 tomato plants and Esther told me she thought the hoe I have been using for the past three years is responsible for making me tired. She is partial to a small three-pronged hoe her daughter Edna picked up at the flea market. After trying it, I was inclined to agree.

Tools were of concern today. Reuben has again misplaced the shovel and Esther wants to dig out the comfrey plants that are still coming up two years after we moved the herbs to a different spot. She likes the blue flowers they produce.

Soon, we moved from working in the “big garden” to the “little garden” which has a wonderful rich loamy texture. The big garden is only a few years old. In a former life it may have been a gravel pit, for all the stones that keep surfacing. We’ve managed to kill off most of the thistles in it by spraying them with vinegar, but it isn’t especially fun to work there.

The little garden was perfect for working in today, with exactly the right amount of moisture in the soil. Not only that, it was cool and breezy. We took off our shoes and I worked for several hours pulling weeds and the lettuce and spinach that had gone to seed with some radishes that would never make it in the summer weather. I only stepped on one stone the entire time I worked.

I accidentally pulled up a carrot while I was weeding. I was getting hungry and wishing for some water to wash the carrot. Edna brought a bucket and the next thing we were having a garden lunch of (very) fresh carrots. Edna and Esther each found a large one but I contented myself with several smaller ones wrapped in some romaine leaves. About an hour later, we ate oatmeal sandwich cookies and had a glass of water as we sat in the shade of a maple tree.

While I was weeding, I’d noticed the run-away chamomile plants. They’ve spread from and earlier herb bed to the pasture on the other side of the picket fence. Now I know why Esther frowned when I brought her a packet of chamomile seed in the spring. “What part of the chamomile plant do you use to make tea?” I inquired of Esther today.

“You dry the flowers,” she said.

“Do you have any idea how many hours I’d have to sit at my computer doing Internet searches to learn all the things you’ve told me this summer?” I asked my neighbor. I’m suddenly struck by the way my life has taken a turn for the better since I’ve gotten to know my neighbors.

While Edna and I took care of the last peas, Esther got the job of cleaning out the garlic bed. She had to contend with the drifts of asparagus that kept falling across her back as she worked. Edna and I were pulling over gown peas off the dying vines and shelling them into one of four large stainless steel bowls she’d brought out—far more containers than we needed.

Rover barked and we looked up as a pony cart rolled down the lane. Esther went to talk to the young people in the cart. In less than a minute, they’d turned around and were trotting back up the lane. They had only come to let the Millers know there would be another neighborhood ice cream supper next Thursday—the pony express.

I wriggled my toes in the soft dirt and stretched. Above me the windmill creaked and the little bantam rooster continued to crow even though it was afternoon. My dog, Beau, and Rover chased each other around in the lawn. It was only half mowed. A visitor had interrupted Esther while she was mowing it (with a push mower) last night.

Before I left, I went into the house to wash my hands at the sink inside the back door. There is no mirror above the sink; no pictures on the wall except for a calendar or two. There is no television, phone or radio. There is an “ice box” in the “wash house.” My neighbors manage to live on a couple of gallons of gasoline a month. There is an engine to power the washing machine and another to pump water when the wind isn’t blowing. For some reason, I don’t think a lot about any of this when I’m there. In fact, most of the time, I feel right at home.

Please: DO Nibble a Nasturtium!

2006-06-21T13:55:00.000-07:00

Strawberry bread, garlic potato salad, sesame couscous chicken salad, Mexican bean dip, and strawberry soup: these are some of the delicious treats women enjoyed earlier today at my table. No, I didn’t prepare a feast—all I did was agree to host a Simply In Season lunch.

In case you haven’t tried it yet, the Simply In Season Cookbook is a way to bring some excitement to the table. Many of the 18 women who attended our seasonal lunch for Spring say that SIS has made them cook and think about food in new ways. During introductions, the women talked about getting food from their gardens, from roadside produce stands and from farmer’s markets. One gal even confessed to eating some of the weeds she didn’t get around to pulling yet!

Karen G. operates an organic farm and has a passion for raising all kinds of food, including edible flowers. Because she doesn’t have room to host guests, I offered to hostess if she “organized” our SIS tasting party. She came prepared with bags of flowers for the girls who used them to make flower dolls on the porch. The women in the dining room took a quiz Karen had prepared. We examined three vases of leaves and flowers and tried to identify the mysterious greens. One bouquet of flowers was completely edible!

Although we were women of various ages and different stages in life, we were united by our love of good food and our enjoyment of local foods, sustainable and organic farming and gardening--and, of course, eating! Two guests were visiting local women. A friend from Dayton said someone near her compiled a list of roadside stands for exploring purposes. A resident of Virginia said she regularly finds fresh produce at a farmers’ market.

The amazing Simply In Season Cookbook was commissioned by Mennonite Central Committee and published by Herald Press. It already has many fans and it’s own personal blogspot at http://simplyinseason.blogspot.com/ A site worth exploring, for sure. If you take time to read the quotes at the bottom of many recipe pages in SIS, your consciousness about food will be raised a notch or two. One family shares these writings at the dinner table and talks them over together to help the whole family learn about food issues. And, the upcoming SIS for Kids is looking for material, too. Pass the word (along with the strawberry bread!)

I have a feeling there will be more seasonal lunches in my dining room. In fact, Karen and I picked a tentative date on the August calendar for the next one. Between now and then there will be crops to grow and harvest, weeds to pull, and flowers to eat. But others will be left on display just for seeing and smelling. For the rest of this week, the three lovely bouquets from Karen’s garden will be a beautiful reminder of a memorable lunch.

Called, Anointed and Sent

2006-05-02T17:35:00.000-07:00

I’ve just come away from a beautiful weekend—the last one of April. National poetry month is a mere memory. May is Mental Health Month and includes Mothers’ Day to look forward to. Last week we attended our daughter Laura’s Baccalaureate Worship Service on Friday evening and Commencement at Eastern Mennonite Seminary on Saturday. Once again I was caught up in celebrating another significant family milestone.

The scriptures say Jesus’ mother Mary “pondered all of these things in her heart.” I can identify with that sentiment—the wonder of the annunciation and giving birth, the way the Spirit moves in our lives with events that keep unfolding. It leaves us in awe, with a sense of both mystery and delight. There's no way to describe it. I too have had many things to ponder over the years. Eventually you don’t want to keep quiet about them.

Years ago we adopted our first child, Jeremy and hoped for more children. But the progress was slow and discouraging for both adoption and conceiving a second child. At times I felt almost desperate. It became an overwhelming spiritual struggle, even an obsession. And I begged God for a miracle. I recall a night when I felt restless and sleepless as I leaned on the windowsill praying for this child who was only a figment of my imagination. I gazed up into the winter sky where a single bright celestial body—perhaps Venus, named for the goddess of love--shone down on me. As I watched, it transformed from a “wishing star” to a “promise star.”

An older woman at church told me it is never “out of God’s will” to pray to have a child and so I continued to pray. I also gathered up the biblical stories of barren women—Hannah, the mother of Samuel and Elizabeth, mother of John the Baptist. I claimed them as my own story. I noted the way these mothers dedicated their children to God even before they were born. I would follow their example. In the margin of my oldest Bible I noted the date—March 6, 1977 next to Ps. 113:9. “He gives the barren woman a home, making her the joyous mother of children.” Four years later, Laura was born on Valentine’s Day. God was saying—“This is all about love—I’ve given you your heart’s desire.”

Soon after our grown-up daughter enrolled in seminary three years ago, I suddenly realized how our experience mirrored that of my biblical heroines. During Laura's internship at Lindale Mennonite Church in her second year of seminary training, we made it a point to hear her sermons. Her mentor there was Duane Yoder, who had previously been my parents' pastor in Florida. Laura's second sermon was based on an assigned text from the lectionary: the call of Samuel! I sat near the front of the beautiful new sanctuary at Lindale and marveled at God’s faithfulness and unfailing love. (Not to mention the Almighty’s good humor and fondness for beautiful surprises).

Graduation events this past weekend brought more confirmation of God’s goodness and grace. The class theme for the 2006 graduating class of Eastern Mennonite Seminary was “Anointed and Sent to Bring Good News” from Isaiah 61:1-6a, NRSV (my favorite version!) Laura, whose last name since marriage to Brandon, is Laura Amstutz, was at the head of her class—the first to walk forward for a ceremonial anointing by a faculty member during baccalaureate—the first in line to receive her diploma the following day.

Most of the thirty-three members of Laura’s graduating class have not been called to pastor a church. Many of them are considering forms of ministry beyond traditional definitions. Some are waiting for unknown destinations to be revealed. For now, Laura took a job at the seminary as a communication coordinator. It’s a good fit, given her undergraduate degree. It will launch this new phase of her life as an employed adult.

Laura told us she knows she will be in ministry no matter what job she accepts, no matter where she lives or what assignments come her way. As for me, I have no trouble imagining her as the pastor of a church one day. I can’t forget the strange feeling of sitting in a pew listening to her. I was caught up in her message as if she were someone else—no longer the little girl I dressed in a pink frilly bonnet and pushed down the street in a stroller. She’s been called, anointed and sent--to bring Good News. I knew it from the beginning. Listening that day confirmed it.

She’s called to difficult and joyful work. It is a ministry we all share--bringing good news to the poor and oppressed; binding up the brokenhearted; announcing liberty to the captives; comforting mourners, repairing ruined cities, and raising up former devastations. One thing I know--she’s a natural at dispensing the “oil of gladness.” That was part of her job description right from the beginning. You go girl!

Celebrating Poetry Month

2006-04-08T08:51:00.000-07:00

April is National Poetry Month. Already this month I’ve heard this mentioned several times—admittedly most often on National Public Radio. I thought I might share some of my thoughts about poetry—things I’ve gleaned in my study, writing and reading of this art form.

Poetry seems to be more popular recently. It’s becoming more mainstream and has moved from being seen as an academic, quirky, peripheral eccentricity, to an acceptable activity for growing numbers of ordinary citizens. "Poetry Slams" are held in larger cities and the revival of the coffee house has also revived poetry readings. How did this happen, and why? Here are a few observations:

Poetry is often short and can be quickly “consumed” in a way not possible with prose—an important value for readers. Poetry can also be written in short bursts of attention, another plus for those of us who aspire to write it. It's word cappuchino.

Another reason for the revival of poetry might be the ability of people in our culture to readily assimilate visual images. Ironically, this has come about because of film. Poetry is often filled with visual images which are offered up in accessible and interesting “word pictures.”

Poetry was visible after 9-11, when selections were offered to the masses as a way to help us deal with this national disaster. When faced with loss, pain and tragedies we can’t understand, we reach for words to comfort those who suffer and to memorialize those who have died. I’ve noticed how often in my own community family members write poems which they read at the memorial service of a loved one.

Poetry can serve as a challenge to society, too. In 2003, a poet and long-time pacifist, Sam Hamill, declined an invitation to the White House from Laura Bush because of the impending attack on Iraq. Then he asked about 50 fellow poets to submit poems of protest which he intended to send to the White House. Fifteen hundred poets responded within four days and Hamill created a website which has remained in existence at http://www.poetsagainstthewar.org/.

Since then, other poets have also declined invitations from Laura Bush, most recently Sharon Olds. Today there are more than 20,000 poems in the Poets Against the War anthology. The rise of Poets Against the War is a fascinating study of the way poetry can be a prophetic and hopeful voice and help us all imagine a better world.

What is it about a collection of words that makes something a poem? While we often think of rhymed lines with a specific meter as the necessary structure of a poem, today many poems are not so rigidly organized. Many newer poems rely on subtle qualities of diction and organization. One long-standing value of good poetry is the use of fresh language which engages the senses. Often a poem calls on the reader to bring their own wisdom to the words. The reader's heart is invited to enter into the poem.

Something mystical happens when a new poetry reader first becomes engaged in the reading and writing of poetry. Ted Kooser, the current Poet Laureate tells about the time a person, perhaps at a young age, encounters this experience of being apprehended by poetic language. As I read his description, I remembered how, as a pre-teen, I’d clipped a poem from a church paper and pondered the words for weeks. The poem, likely not a very literary one, described the poet going out with a can of oil to find his neighbor’s squeaky gate, but in the process he encountered the neighbor and they “talked of gates, and oil, and life.” I have no idea who wrote that poem, but the imagery has remained with me. It educated me in the ways of poetry as I struggled to understand how the poet employed metaphor and symbol to speak to the ways of the heart.

Those of us who have grown up as practicing Christians have been primed for poetry consumption through the language of hymns and words of scripture—especially the Psalms and parables. Both are rich in just the kind of imagery that is still used in many current poems. The challenge for a contemporary poet is to find new and accessible ways to express truth. As readers of poetry, we might let the beauty of a collection of words stand in for us when we feel speechless, or inspire us to think in new ways. Poetry is also a form of music or visual art, to be enjoyed for its ability to feed the spirit.

Like those who responded to Sam Hamill’s request, many writers of poetry begin to write out of intense emotion—anger, fear, pain, loss, regret, love, or passion, to name a few. All of these emotions are within each of us—yet we’re sometimes at a loss to express them. In our current culture, many of us have relegated things of the heart to a small corner of our lives. We dwell mostly in our minds. Some have unwittingly closed their hearts to life’s greater truths. Poetry offers a path that can guide us back to a more spiritual life.

Poets have not yet managed to stop the war or right injustice or even capture the beauty of a sunset with their words, but they go on speaking—to the masses, or to the few who are listening.
Below is a poem I wrote recently after I began re-reading Donald Kraybill’s Upside Down Kingdom. The image of an “upside down kingdom” has become over-familiar to Mennonites. The phrase was coined by Kraybill to describe the political stance of Christ. As a poet, I wanted to try a fresh approach so I imagined what it would look like if the natural world was upside down.

Upside Down Kingdom

Have you seen the carrots and parsnips in my garden?
Their roots point up—reaching out to the sky,
their underground leaves are hidden from view.

Tree branches in my woods hide deep in the blue
I once thought a sky. Their roots spread out,
Fine threads weave a hairy brown canopy.

My black dog travels miles, running circles
on his back. His tongue reaches up to the raindrops
which stream away in the other direction.

There is a fire burning inside the mountain.
It is dark as a cave—I can’t see it but I know
it burns. It has such a cool breath.

The sky is an ocean; the wild ocean, a sky. A river
runs over my head. Stars twinkle under my feet.
All day I walk on the shadow I thought was the moon.

Lofty Thoughts

Mustard Seeds and Lent

2006-03-20T19:27:00.000-08:00

I’m well overdue for another blog entry-- but where to begin? First, Redecorating Month seems to be forging ahead. The kitchen is minus its ivy vine wallpaper and is painted a cheerful Amber color. I think it looks about like the walls at Olive Garden—exactly what I had in mind.
I’m trying to figure how redecorating fits into Lent, which is an important time of spiritual searching and growth for me. Redecorating seems so temporal and un-spiritual. But, something inside me urges this stripping off the old and bringing on the new. I look at my walls with those choices from over ten years ago and I see someone different. A woman who was fussy and a bit over-extended, perhaps a bit unsure of herself, too. The color of the rooms—a murky sea green just doesn’t express the person I am or the way I want to exist in this house. Is that spiritual in any way at all? Maybe not. But it is surely spiritual to “take off the old and put on the new.” To thine own self be true. I’m not murky green anymore.
After a few days of dirt, scraping and scrubbing, then finally applying the new coat of paint I began to feel disconnected from my writing life and somewhat distanced from the old writing projects too. My office is a mass of papers and random books. The second novel is sitting there waiting for another 6 chapters—still unwritten. But I’ve written three new poems. I love the very newest one. But then, I often have a brief intense love affair with my newest work of any sort (even redecorating!)
All month, I felt some inner stirring I couldn’t put my fingers on. It was troubling. I whined (again!) to my spiritual director when I saw her. Apologized that I was again into another whole list of new things—teaching Jr. Hi Sunday school about spiritual disciplines and home school kids about poetry. I’m preparing for a three-hour presentation about Mennonites to a group of mental health workers and getting ready to head out for a big poetry reading at Goshen next Sunday. I’ve been going to the mailbox hoping for some small shred of affirmation for my novel but haven’t see so much as one review yet. It’s disturbing! My confidante read me a poem by Hafiz that ended with a line about scattering emeralds, as if that would actually help me! But, in a day or so, it did.
Last Thursday and Friday I took off for a Women In Ministry conference at Bluffton University. (Thank goodness the kitchen was back in order!) I went to see daughter, Laura, but found out at the last minute I’d only be able to attend the keynote addresses, since registration had closed on March 1. This caused me to stay overnight Thursday and come home Friday afternoon. It was good to see her. She stayed in my motel with me.
While I was there I participated in a guided meditation over a mustard seed. I came home and immediately discovered a request for a “poet” to work on a project for Tom Sine, author of the 1981 Mustard Seed Conspiracy book. It was in an online newsletter I get. The “coincidence” was too close for comfort so I responded.
Today, the wall paper had to remain on the walls. I spent the entire day writing a parable-type piece in response to Tom Sine’s request. I have no idea whatsoever where this is leading! It is all part of another mysterious Lenten journey and has the potential to send me off in a different direction once more—or perhaps only build on the things that have gone before—the sustainable farming conference and the other odd interests that crop up and make me feel crazy (sorry to use the pejorative term, folks) but no other word completely will do. Maybe my brain chemistry IS mis-firing.
I went ahead and planted that mustard seed. It was in the bottom of my purse after I took everything out to look for it. I soaked it in a spoonful of water overnight and put it in a peat cup with the little eggplants and peppers. Is it true what Jesus said about it? That it will turn into a large tree with birds in the branches. I hope that doesn’t happen before I get the dining room re-decorated. The birds would be a problem, I think. Lofty Thoughts

March is Re-decorating Month

2006-03-04T08:34:00.000-08:00

Last weekend I went to a Sustainable Farming Conference at Laurelville Mennonite Church Center. The people I met there were inspiring and the things I heard fed my ongoing interest in growing food, eating local foods and learning about the way food is produced and marketed. There was also an emphasis on the way our Christian faith relates to consumption. Inspirational sessions focused on the ways in which God’s people in biblical times were often required to live at odds with the empire of their times.

I came home with practical ideas to share with my neighbors and friends and with some inspiration that will keep me learning and growing I also came home to watch the hawk that seems to be nesting in the woods beyond my house. I see them flying around and perching on branches at the edge of the woods or soaring out over the field. The hawk has special significance for me. I know they’re often thought of as birds of prey and I do shudder to think they might be feeding off my pretty bird feeder birds. But I also find them elegant and inspiring—the way they can perch high up and survey the surrounding countryside and then zero in on something as tiny as a mouse or a chipmunk.

At times, that’s how I like to think of myself as both a writer and a consumer. I like taking the long view and spending time contemplating the “big picture”. But eventually I focus in on something small and practical—of great importance to me at a moment in time, but seemingly insignificant to someone else.

For instance, I can spend a lot of time thinking about something as mundane and unimportant, in the grand scheme of things, as curtains or a bed cover. As if my life depended on it--these things have always had great significance for me. At times I feel it's silly when I consider the many concerns of the world and how little a curtain matters in comparison. But there is something inside of me that wants to frame the view of my world in an artful way. I recall living in our first apartment and purchasing a beautiful chintz drapery fabric. I sewed a pair of detailed pinch-pleated, lined draperies that fit the window of our bedroom perfectly. When, after about eight months, we decided to move to a house that had more room, a nice lawn and lower rent, I actually cried about the fact my drapes wouldn’t be of use in the new place. How silly was that?

My mother expressed her artistic bent by creating lovely spaces for the family to live in. Growing up, we pored over the Robinson’s Wallpaper books that came regularly in the mail as if our life depended on it. She re-wallpapered our eight-room farmhouse time and time again, using these inexpensive papers. It was necessary because of coal furnace soot. This was actual “paper”--not vinyl coated wall covering.

I still take a lot of satisfaction in finding ways to rearrange things I have or working with the treasures I find in thrift stores, bargain stores or the occasional castoff. I have this idea that it is possible to have both beauty and economy in a home’s furnishings. I’ve learned some basics—how to paint, wallpaper and care for and restore things. The stack of magazines full of pictures of flea market decorating and shabby chic piles up in a corner. I study the pictures for ideas—colors, arrangements, the creation of beauty in what was once neglected buildings and cast-off furnishings. Many times, simple abundance can be had for a bit of elbow grease and attention to detail.

As I turned the calendar page to March 1 this week, I thought of my mother. Her birthday would have been March 17. When I used to look for a gift for her, I'd often buy something small for her house—a candle, a plant, a basket, a piece of pottery. Many times she returned the favor. This year I won’t be able to give her a gift—a tangible one. But I will recognize and remember her homemaking artistry. I’ve decided to declare March “Redecorating Month” in her honor--and to honor my own urge to create interest and beauty at home. So far I’ve painted a few odds and ends with a crackle painting technique and I’ve stripped dark wallpaper from the half bath and painted it yellow. I’ve bought some silk curtains at an off-price store and updated the bedroom with some very colorful new linens. I have more ideas and plans. What can I say? I’m “homemaker-y!”

Laundry and Home Making

2006-02-21T08:23:00.000-08:00

This morning I read “Cabin Fever” by Ken Gordon in the current issue of Poets & Writers. He wrote about the way some American writers have yearned for, and created, cabins to write in and to write about. Thoreau is the obvious first example, but there are many others.

The piece caused me to recall the sense of wonder I felt the first time I visited the re-constructed log cabin just behind the home of David and Elsie Kline. I immediately felt as if I was “coming home” in this writerly atmosphere. It seemed almost contrived in its random collection of books stacked on top of an old dry sink. There were snowshoes hanging on the wall along with old farm implements. There was a woodstove, of course, worn rugs, a rocking chair and a writing table (not a desk, mind you) in front of a double-hung window with the required number of panes. The single room contained an old iron bed covered with a handmade quilt. There was a loft with a ladder for access. For months afterward I longed for such a space of my own.

I still wish for it sometimes, but like Ken Gordon, I’ve come to accept the fact I’ll likely find my own space in something less taxing to my physical energy—since it’s a fact that these writer cabins are nearly always built by their writer-owners who are men in their prime with skills I don’t have—nor aspire to. (I do know a woman who built a straw-bale house with the help of her female friends.) As these men built their cabins, they accomplished something akin to writing itself. New writing often resulted—which often detailed the process of construction and its inherent life lessons.

My actual home has many cabin-like features—a fireplace, a loft, sunny windows, a table facing an east window that looks out onto a woods where a hawk is building a nest. I’ve gathered the clutter of my writing profession in the loft. Day after day, quiet reigns. I rarely turn on the radio and never touch the television. Unlike the writer’s cabin, though, my space continually begs me to do housework. Besides writing, I cook, clean, do laundry and wash dishes. I live inside my escape. “So you’re living the dream, then?” someone asked me recently. Yes, in a way. . . .

Cabin builders become grounded as they fashion their dwelling. As a woman, perhaps my gift is to find that same sustainable provenance in the homemaker-y work which usually precedes or follows my own writing sessions. In monastic life, every monk did menial tasks. They fit seamlessly into a life of prayer, contemplation and good works. I suspect the “dream” is not complete without physical labor.

In current culture, the division of labor and our specialization results in people having an ever more limited round of duties and chores. There are “service professions” to see to any personal need. Clothing care is outsourced to dry cleaning professionals. Food is catered or bought ready to eat in the deli section. Cleaning professionals efficiently breeze through our houses spraying lemon-scented incense. The list could go on.

But, what do we lose when we constantly rely on someone else to do our “dirty work”? When and why did these menial tasks become so objectionable? What we don’t manage to farm out to a service professional is often taken care of in-house in a most perfunctory way. There are machines for most household tasks. Some of these bring on their own set of maintenance and need for attention—but we mostly ignore these, accepting routine obsolesce.

Psychologists note the build-up of stress in our lives and our increasing inability to care for ourselves, emotionally and spiritually. This is even evident in the realm of self-care—whether it is hiring a personal trainer to help us exercise or a “nail technician” to make our hands beautiful enough for public display. Meanwhile these hands seem less and less capable or willing to perform simple tasks such as washing dishes or handling laundry.

What we’ve lost is our sense of holiness in the mundane and the blessing inherent in performing simple tasks. In an achievement oriented society, we’ve been acculturated to believe menial tasks are beneath us. We were made for better, higher things. There is an expert nearby who is “better at it.”

One of my favorite musicians is Carrie Newcomer. She has a song that includes the words: “Folding sheets, like folding hands, to pray as only laundry can.” She echoes Kathleen Norris who wrote The Quotidian Mysteries: Laundry, Liturgy and Women’s Work. I relate to the idea of holiness in laundry, although in weaker moments I’m still impatient with no-iron shirts that need “touching up” or the jumble of dark socks waiting to be sorted. I recall the complaint of a mother of four about inside-out socks and the time-consuming task of turning them—her determination to teach her brood the all-important skill. (There are limits to the meditative effects, it seems).

Another woman mentioned the “ritual” of ironing table linens. She said this homely task brought closure to the holiday celebration for her. As she ironed the high quality linens, feeling their natural textures and scenting them with linen water, she meditated with gratitude on the memory of her recently gathered family, saying a prayer for each as she worked.

In winter I tend to rely on my in-house appliance servants, unlike my Amish neighbors who hang laundry on the line in all kinds of weather. But in other seasons, the rhythm of a day is self-evident with the hanging of laundry to air dry on the clothesline and later, taking it inside before sundown. I feel the romance of a European city when I see white dishtowels fluttering from a line outside my sun drenched window. When I bury my face in air dried clothing or slide between freshly washed and wind-dried sheets, I know I’ve cared for myself and those I love. Then, the simple things of life are gift enough. It’s a satisfaction one can cultivate and nurture, similar to the self-reliance Thoreau and the others raised with their timbers. It’s elemental, and nurtures something a writer—perhaps anyone—needs as they go about the task of building a dwelling for body and soul.
Lofty Thoughts

On Being Homemaker-ey

2006-02-14T09:30:00.000-08:00

The above title comes from my daughter's comment on the last entry. She and I both explore dichotomies of our lives and the role/s of women in the 21st century. At times I feel a sense of confusion as I examine my own journey from full time homemaker to full time employed outside the home and now coming back home. When I'm baking bread, gardening and hanging laundry on the clothesline I wonder at times why it mattered so much for me to have a career.

But when I sit at my desk writing and thinking of the many contacts with the world beyond my home I've garnered in the past decade and a half, I waver. Which is right? I ask myself. Why did I ever "leave home?" Why did I work in an office for the better part of 15 years of my life? Why did I give myself passionately to organizations, causes, and institutions outside my four walls, only to come full circle back to where I started out?

The questions aren't easy to answer but they reflect a growing sensibility and recognition of my place in the world and the ways that place can shift, change and adapt over a lifetime that is still incomplete. I am really not the same person who baked Leora's whole wheat bread 15 years ago. Today, I've returned to doing some of the same things, but for different reasons and with a different outlook and changed perspectives.

I dropped out of college and married at age 19. I'd planned to major in home economics. But once I was married, I thought my life was settled. Then in the shifting sands of feminism and my quest for satisfaction, I soon came up short. My interest in writing and my desire to be part of something of value and significance beyond my own doorstep, drew me back to college where I majored in communication arts. The choice to study communication rather than literature was a decision based on my desire to leave academia with credentials that would land me a job and a paycheck--eventually.

I say "eventually" because it took me nine years to claim that diploma. I had too many interests--including kids and my part-time job editing the Ohio Evangel. In the process I phased out gardening, canning, and the clothesline. I also quit sewing and replaced my "homemaker-ey" skills with things such as desk-top publishing. (My supervisor called me a "pioneer" for this.) I got a little gray Honda Accord stick shift and started driving myself out into the world. It was a great ride--all of it except for the Algrebra which was a huge looming barrier that I finally broke through.

A decade working the the public mental health system was full of new people, places and social awareness--not to mention new friends and challenges. Toward the end of that decade I began to long for a different life. I was tired of being indoors; tired of being in my car; tired of the routines and requirements. One thing that had remained in all my wanderings was a desire to put my thoughts and experiences into words. Now I wanted that more than ever. I could envision a life I chose for myself. It was different than either of my former lives.

So I came back home to write. It seems perfect, except that I don't make much money at it. But money isn't everything. I'm fortunate to live in a family that can make it on one income. So many people don't have that luxury. I'm also fortunate to no longer live a time-starved life. I found out that isn't a good way to live when you're a contempletive person, and I am one. I thrive on the ability to breath fresh air whenever I need it and to arrange my days as I see fit.

The options available to both men and women today are reminiscent of the choices at Giant Eagle. Now, more than ever, it's important to choose. Maybe some of us need to limit ourselves to shopping the outside aisles. Every choice for one thing is a choice against many others. I now sometimes think the looming future will bring many of us back to something a simpler and more basic than the fast-paced lifestyles and rampant consumption of recent decades.

Simplicity and contentment are virtues. They are challenged constantly by advertisers pushing so many products I can easily live without. I don't regret the opportunities I've had, the resources I've gained and those I'm learning to live without. I needed to do every thing I ever said I needed to do. The common denominator (yeah, I can now use math words without feeling sick to my stomach!) is that each step of the way I've listened to my heart. Today I know better than I once did that my creative spirit is best served by doing the hands-on tasks of everyday life--a gift that became mine when I re-claimed the flexible schedule I value more than I once did.

Paying attention to the "heart" is a good thing to do on this Valentine's Day. Spirit, my "eatenbyseminary" daughter suggests in her comments, is a Holy Homemaker. Now there's a concept . . .Thanks "Lou" And, Happy Valentine Birthday to YOU!

Homemaking Arts

2006-02-08T13:57:00.000-08:00

Homemaking Arts

I’m baking bread. I can smell it while I’m writing. It’s 3:30 in the afternoon and I’ve washed three loads of laundry and baked three different bread recipes. It’s been a good day so far.

When I filled out my blog profile I put the words “homemaking arts” on my list of interests. Imagine my surprise to find I’m the sole blogger in this category. I don’t believe for a minute it’s true. Either the other writers don’t think of these things as a bona fide interest, or they have broken it into smaller chunks such as cooking, sewing, gardening, etc. I suppose no one has declared laundry or defrosting the freezer as worthy of putting on their profile—things I’ve done in the last two days.

I once read an essay by Wendell Berry in which he said we need to renew the homemaking arts. Fine for him to say, I thought. I hear he doesn’t even type his own manuscripts. His wife uses an old typewriter. He doesn’t have a computer. I guess he’s a purist or something. Probably just old fashioned. He farms and writes. He plows with horses.

I’m interested in sustainability, same as Wendell Berry. The more I learn, the more I’m convinced our environment is under siege and it’s our own fault. We are consumptive to the death of us—or at least to the death of our children and grandchildren's inheritance of the planet. It's enough to send me back to the old ways. (Please excuse me while I go empty the oven and the dryer.)

I hope to write about some of my homemaking arts--including laundry-- in my next few blogs. Writing is a way to discover what we think, so perhaps I’ll develop a bit more clarity on these arts as I continue with the topic. Now, about baking bread.

It is easy enough to get excellent bread in a store. Even if I want specialty breads or a “homebaked” style I can purchase it at Buehlers—our best local supermarket chain. At health food stores like Wooster Natural Foods you can buy Ezekiel Bread in an orange wrapper. It is made of sprouted wheat and contains the ingredients mentioned in some obscure Bible verse in Ezekiel. So, why bake my own?

Since I defrosted the freezer yesterday I realized there is room in there for some bread. If I buy the kinds of bread I prefer they are expensive. It was a cold and seemed right for baking so I got out my old recipes. I baked French bread using the recipe in the More With Less Cookbook. I used my new authentic French bread baking pan. (I bought it at Ms. Gadgets at Berlin on the fateful day Java Jo’s burned). French bread has the fewest ingredients—water, oil, salt, a bit of sugar, flour and yeast. I used white high-gluten flour which isn’t best if you’re striving for authenticity. You'd want regular unbleached flour. The loaves look a little oversized and soft, but they’re nicely browned.

Next I turned to the tan-covered Kidron Mennonite Cookbook and a recipe for 100% whole wheat bread. This is Leora Gerber’s recipe and I remember it from back in the early 1970s. Leora developed this recipe herself and perfected it. It’s more challenging to use only whole wheat, but the bread has a soft moist texture if it's done right, and a nutty flavor. The recipe takes powdered milk, honey, butter, and two eggs. Today I made it using organic wheat flour and two cups of organic spelt flour. The recipe made one regular sized loaf and three smaller loaves.

My final bread batch was a recipe for oatmeal bread that I saved from a long ago bag of oats. I compared several recipes before choosing this one. This one had more oats than the others. (I recently learned I’d dropped my cholesterol by ten points just by eating oatmeal every day). This recipe also calls for molasses. I used my locally grown and pressed sorghum molasses. In both the wheat and oatmeal breads I used half butter and half organic first cold pressed olive oil. I rarely use margarine or shortening anymore. I still like the taste of butter and the fact it’s a natural food.

Much of my day was taken up with producing our “daily bread.” Bread has so many religious and spiritual meanings for me as a Christian. Buying a package makes it easy to forget the truth of bread. When I make my own, I measure each ingredient. I see the granules of crushed wheat. I watch the yeast bubble in a cup until it practically overflows.

For a few years, I had a bread machine. It died in a suicidal leap from the counter one day while it was mixing. I decided not to replace it. (I’m sure Mrs. Berry doesn’t have one!) I knew I could live without it, because I had before. The machine is convenient in its own way--you don’t need to concern yourself with temperatures or kneading. Today, each loaf I baked had to be kneaded by hand--for ten minutes. I set the timer and worked the dough while I watched birds at the feeder and thought about the arm and shoulder muscles I was exercising. While I’m kneading I can pray and send love to important people. Value added.

Will I begin making all our bread? Doubtful. But I do know it’s a good way to spend a winter’s day. By baking my own bread I may have saved a trip or two to the store. The bread will be stored in plastic I’ve saved from bulk food purchases. I’ll be able to pull it out if guests come. It will taste good for supper and make great tomorrow’s toast.

Rekindled!

2006-02-01T10:12:00.000-08:00

This morning I read the newspaper headlines as I carried the paper in from the box. The headline said “Rekindled.” “Oh no!” I thought. A favorite coffee spot has burned down—Java Jo’s in Berlin. Behind Java Jo’s in the same building is Nature’s Market, a thriving health food store I often visit when I’m in Berlin.

I'd been there on Monday when I decided to “go south” and visit several furniture stores and outlets. I was looking for an end table for my mother-in-law. She’s housebound and spends a lot of time in her recliner-lift chair. The clutter beside her chair was piling up and the wobbly round table had outlived its usefulness. I’m not much of a healthcare worker but I do love shopping and “homemaking arts” as I like to refer to my nesting instincts. Shopping for the new table was a good job for me.

After stopping at several stores, looking for possibilities, I ended up in Berlin. This little town is a “tourist trap” full of all kinds of interesting shops. It’s a great place to go for a personal get-away when I don’t have much time to get away. I parked near Zincks, the fabric outlet and went into a furniture place nearby. Then I walked down the street to Java Jo’s thinking I’d get a sandwich and coffee. It was past lunch time. The town can be a zoo during tourist season but on a winter Monday, things were pretty quiet. I bought a chicken salad croissant, a cup of coffee and a bottle of water for $7. I sat at the bar overlooking the street and read an article about the history of the old railroad station that was moved trail-side last summer.

When I finished my food, I walked to the back of Java Jo’s and entered the health food store. Someone working at the coffee shop said: “We should probably get out of the building. I don’t believe this day!” She was shaking her head. “There’s a fire upstairs I think.” She went toward the stairs and I noticed a bit of smoke and the odor of what might have been an electrical fire—or melting plastic. Someone was on the phone calmly calling 9-1-1. I went into the health food store. Customers were paying for their stuff and everyone was leaving, so I gave up on shopping there.

I went across the street to Ms. Gadgets. Soon fire trucks came charging down the street. Traffic backed up on the road and I could see smoke coming out of the building. I left Berlin and eventually found the required end table. On Tuesday the newspaper had a front page article about the fire, which had been put out. Store owners had gone back to clean up smoke damage and said they were thankful the damage was minimal.

This morning the news was different. During the early morning hours, the fire rekindled and the building and contents were destroyed except for a few large items that were removed. The building is still standing but will need to be torn down. It was one of the oldest buildings in the town—gone.

It was a comfy place with good coffee. I remember how my friend Marilyn and I went there for a special lunch the week before she left for two years in Liberia. I remember a time I’d read some of my work at a small poetry reading there. I remember a delicious cranberry-turkey sandwich with alfalfa sprouts I shared there with my daughter some years back.

Finally, I thought about the word “re-kindled” (I like to think about words and their meanings). “Rekindled” is another one of those words we use sometimes in a spiritual way. We talk about how the Spirit will “rekindle” a holy fire within us—spark renewal.

Interestingly, while I sat in Java Jo’s on Monday afternoon, I was reading about the way the old depot was renewed when they moved it to the trail-side and re-named it Hipp Station--this is a better fate for an historic building. "Rekindled" might be a good word in the right place and time. But for me, countless patrons, and the owners of Java Jo’s and the other businesses who’ve been left temporarily homeless, "rekindled!" is language that leaves us cold. As I’ve said before—metaphorical language has its limitations.

For now, the best I can do with this experience is note the ironic connections. I, Jo--thus called by my family for most of my life--was the last person to order a cup of “joe” at Java Jo’s. This, apparently, is my dubious distinction. What else can I think or say about this strange and ironic turn of events?

Dorothy Day and Al & Gladys

2006-01-26T09:07:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, things people do, don't make sense. Ralph and I were talking about this last week after we had Al and Gladys Geiser over for dinner and a visit. Al and Gladys are members of our church. A few years ago, Al sold his successful business and they went to live in Afghanistan. Al works with an Afghan partner in a small business they started. They create hydro-electric power for rural villages. Al said they are able to supply homes enough wattage to have three light bulbs.

Sometimes it takes a lot of work to create enough communty cooperation to move forward with the projects which require a lot of manual labor--done by the Muslim members of the community. He said he thinks the experience of working together may have more value to the villages than the electricity.

Gladys works as a teacher in a school for international students and has her own interesting stories to tell--for instance they way the bomb-sniffing dogs came to check out their playground after a child found an old landmine. When I tell some people my friends and fellow church members are working in places like Afghanistan and Liberia, they wonder about it. It doesn't make sense. Al said their presence in that country is also a mystery to most of the people they work with there. He said that while Muslims will often help their own needy relatives, philanthropic work beyond that is rare--making it all the harder for anyone to understand why an American would leave home and country to bring "hydro" to an isolated village on the other side of the world.

Soon after Al and Gladys visited, I read a newspaper article about Dorothy Day. It caught my eye because I once read her autobiography—The Long Loneliness. Dorothy Day was the leader of the Catholic Worker Movement. She was another American who believed we all share a responsibility to care for the poor, the lonely. and the downtrodden. As I read the article I remembered the Catholic prayer card for Dorothy Day someone once gave me. I found it in my desk drawer. On the front is her picture. On the back is the "Prayer to Dorothy Day"--words which recognize her concern for the needy as well as her work for the cause of peace.

Friend and partner of the poor,
Guiding spirit for the Catholic worker.
Home always open to the unwanted,
Early, often lonely, witness in the cause of peace and conscience,
Eloquent pattern of gospel simplicity--
Dorothy Day, disciple of the Lord:
May we continue your gift of self to the needy and your untiring work for peace!

I admire and support many Christians who hold similar values. There are many present-day saints who work in dangerous and uncomfortable places to show the path to peace. They too demonstrate an "eloquent pattern of gospel simplicity." Their work doesn't go unnoticed.

The article I read said the process to have Dorothy Day canonized as a saint in the Catholic church was initiated three years after her death in 1980. Her organization has survived for a quarter of a century past her death. It has no paid staff, governing body or church authorization. A quote at the end of the article, attributed to Dorothy Day, made me think of people like Al and Gladys, adventurers who choose to sacrifice comfort and convenience in order to help others. "To be a witness doesn’t consist in engaging in propaganda or even stirring people up, but in being a living mystery; it means to live in such a way that one’s life would not make sense if God did not exist.

Keeping the Fire

2006-01-24T10:03:00.000-08:00

On Sunday, January 22, I was worship leader at church. The theme for the morning was "Lose the Weight of Fear" and the hymn prior to my remarks was "Holy Spirit, Come With Power," #26 in the Worship Book. The Spirit is active in our lives--especially when we need help for a challenging task. The second verse of the hymn fit perfectly with my words of welcome. but I wrote them before I'd seen the hymn. Below are my comments and prayer:

I’ve been keeping a fire in our fireplace most days this winter. Keeping the fire has become a ritual of my day. I literally "keep the home fire burning". Once or twice a week I fill the woodbox from our large woodpile. Each morning I carry armloads of wood inside and early in the day I scrape & shovel ashes from the hearth, lay the fire, and light it.

As the day wears on, I check the fire from time to time, stirring it and adding wood. Sometimes the flames die down and the fire seems to be going out. Then I add a fresh log or two. Taking the poker, I stir the logs to rearrange them. In no time, a nice flame is burning again.

Sometimes when I’m stirring the fire I think of the words at the beginning of 1st Timothy. "I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God, which is in you through the laying on of my hands. For God did not give us a spirit of timidity—of fear--but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline. "

I think with gratitude of the people in my life who encourage and support me in my faith. Just as Timothy had his devout grandmother, Lois, and his faithful mother, Eunice, I too have been grateful for those who help me use my gifts. The darkness of our world seems to grow in our minds. News headlines day after day are like a smoldering fire that makes us feel cold, weak and worried. But this morning we’ve left newspapers and television talk shows. We’ve joined together here to contemplate the Good News.

God stirs the fire—the flame within us. We have the warmth of Christian fellowship to rely on and The Good News to fill our hearts with hope.

Prayer:
“Holy Spirit, come with fire, burn us with your presence new. “
As we gather this morning Be among us and burn within us.
Open our hearts to receive the good news you have for each one of us .
Stir the embers of our souls so we will respond in new ways to your truth. AMEN

Dirty Words

2006-01-20T08:41:00.000-08:00

I had a call from my Dad who is in Florida for the winter. Down there in the sunshine he isn't dealing with Ohio dirt and mud this month like I am. He told me he's reading my novel, KAIROS. He even gave a copy to two of his friends. Also, he likes my blog, especially the part about my dog.

Before we hung up he told me he'd gotten to the part of KAIROS, where Mel Martin makes a word-play on the old saying, "Make hay while the sun shines." Mel was hauling manure and said to Angie, "Haul s _ _ _ till the barn's clean." My dad said he "didn't know I talked like that." And I told him I didn't. But Mel does-Mel Martin, that is.

Just so everyone's clear on this--my farmer character, Mel Martin, has many, many wonderful qualities, but he isn't an exact copy of my dad, Mel Horst. Mel Horst would never, ever, say something like that! Back in 1998, when I started writing KAIROS, my dad went by the name Melvin. More recently his Florida name, Mel, began to stick. Martin is the last name of my maternal grandpa whom I admired greatly. So my book character's name is a loose combination of two farmers I love dearly. (Grandpa Martin wouldn't "talk like that" either!)

Another difference between my dad, Mel, and Mel Martin is that my dad isn't a literary type who reads Whitman and Gary Snyder and other writers mentioned in my story. My dad, Mel, went to a one-room grade school and never got extra help with reading skills. Maybe he had a learning disability, or maybe he just likes conversation better. His family cared more about farm work than school, anyway. They were great storytellers, though. (In that way Mel Martin and Mel Horst are alike).

The point isn't to tell you about my dad's short-comings. The point is, I'm so impressed that he's actually reading my book! I've also heard from both my sisters and several friends who read my book, too. (I can't tell you how often I've met writers who tell me their family members never read or comment on their writing).

I was mulling over my transgressions yesterday as I took another long walk. It was a beautiful day and I wanted to stay outside longer so I walked back the lane to see Esther Miller, my neighbor. Esther, Reuben and Edna are Amish and they have a 120 acre farm. I garden with Esther and vicariously enjoy farm life without having any of the responsibilities or financial risks. When I got near the barn I heard piteous bleating of lambs and realized lambing season has begun already! They have ten and more on the way. Esther came out and we checked out the situation. Two lambs from a set of triplets had gotten into a lean-to. The door was too small for the mama to come in. Esther shooed them out but they just ran into the barn. Mama was in the pasture so they were still crying.

We talked for awhile longer. Esther said she's getting rid of three of her geese. She wants to keep only two geese and one gander. Someone told her is she has just two, the geese will be more likely to hatch out their eggs. Esther wanted me to stay a bit because Edna was walking home from school and would be disappointed if she didn't get to see me. We decided to walk partway to meet her. We walked down a cow path past a fabulous old Catalpa tree, dodging mud puddles and cow s_ _ _. I thought about the time I heard Edna say "the S word" as naturally as if she was saying "manure." Maybe in Pennsylvania Dutch one word is as good as the other, I don't know.

My dad is a little worried they won't put my book in the church library because it has a dirty word in it. I guess all I can say to him is that I'm still the same girl I always was--a little rebellious and naughty. But I didn't really say a swear word, did I? It was just "dirty." One of my friends who writes for a religous press says her publisher wouldn't have let the word stay. My editor mentioned it, but let Mel keep his barnyard talk.

My storybook character, Mel Martin, was just trying to shock his girlfriend, Angie. Mel Martin and I both got what we wanted--shock value. But now I have to ask myself--was it worth it to bother the real Mel this way? I don't know. Yes, the "barnyard of life" is full of this stuff I wrote about. When you put it where it belongs--on the fields--it turns into fertilizer. That's what Mel Martin said in the story. But let's hope in the future, Mel Horst's daughter the author, will clean up her language so her books aren't banned by the church librarians.

Unleashed!

2006-01-18T09:41:00.000-08:00

Our pastor, Terry Shue, likes to use the word "unleashed." Habits of speech are interesting and I have no idea how Terry got so enamored of this particular word. It is a wonderful word, though--full of energy and life. I hope he'll continue to talk about "unleasing the power of God in the world" and all the other unleashings that are so exciting to contemplate. I was thinking about being unleashed the other day while I was out with my dog.

Today is a cold, blustery January day and I'll be inside all day. My black lab, Beauregard, is curled up in his dog house in the straw waiting out the storm. I'm here in my loft doing the same. It's been a mild January for the most part and Beau and I have been outdoors together often. He's an outside pet, so I have to go out to spend time with him.

He's also extremely active, so I've fitted him with a "head collar." We walk down the road together when it's nice. The head collar fastens high on his neck. A loop goes over his snout and attaches to his leash. He can still snif and chew, eat and drink. But if he tries to drag me down the road his head turns to the side and feels bad to him. I slow him down a lot, but he's learning to be a good walking companion. There seems to be more potential for him slowing down than there is for the other option--me starting to jog and keeping pace with him.

On our last walk, we sauntered along the road and Beau acted in his usual puppy-like ways. (I've heard from several people now that a black lab might be a puppy for as long as three years. One down, two to go, Beau!) He sometimes walks with his head up, sniffing the air as if there is something wonderful in it. He looks the perfect picture of a hunting dog--the kind they put on the calendars you get at places like Fin, Fur & Feather.

But, sometimes he grosses me out. Beau noses out the scent of road kill jerky. If I'm not careful, he'll grab it in his teeth and shake it until the mangled fur and bones scatter. Even worse is the way he snarfs up road apples left by the many horses that go down South Kansas Road. Oh yuck! I try to keep a handful of treats in my pocket and give him one from my (gloved) hand as a bribe away from Beau's self-selected "treats." I've noticed that as much as he likes the aforementiond stuff, he's less excited about Bud Light and Camels. He did seem halfway interested in an unfinished bottle of Mountain Dew.

On Monday, the weather was so nice we walked further than usual. I took him back a lane and into a field. As soon as we were safely off the road I unleashed him. Suddenly life as Beau knew it took on new meaning! He bounced up and down over the rough terrain, ears flopping, nose in the air, nose to the ground. He zig-zagged and drank from puddles and flew over fallen trees. He posed with his two front paws a fallen tree trunk and surveyed the world with brand new enthusiasm. He was "Unleashed!" All of the former constraints were gone. He was free to be his most beautiful and uninhibited doggy self. He was the essence of beauty and grace and he was free to explore the equivalent of the doggy universe. He was his true nature, through and through.

I wish I could tell you that in his unleashed state Beau lost interest in "jerky." Not so. Eventually he found the vintage 18 month decomposing dead deer at the back of the woods. He sniffed, but when I called to him came running up to me--tail wagging. Even when he's unleashed, he will come when called. He's a good dog and I've often told him so.

I tried to think how this "unleashed" analogy applies to me and to God at work in the world. There are limits to metaphorical language, I guess. But I've confirmed that Terry is right in favoring this word. I wonder, too, if there's a reason God is doG spelled backward. Are both of them leaping through the tall grass and leaving their paw prints scattered over the soft earth? Shall I follow them out as they survey the wide open spaces where who-knows-what awaits my arrival?

Life on South Kansas Road

2006-01-17T06:47:00.000-08:00

When U.S. 30 cut a four lane swath through Wayne County, Ohio, things changed on South Kansas Road. Before, we could drive north to the Lincoln Highway and turn right or left. Now we can only turn left. If we want to go right (east), we have to take a less direct route. It's annoying when I forget and end up driving to the first exit on New Route 30--several miles out of the way--only to go back where I've come from and start over. Traffic that used to whiz by our house on South Kansas has diminished, too. Our road is no longer the most accessible path for carpentry, plumbing and roofing crews who are headed for the next county. Now, Amish-made furniture vans find other routes to get "down south" to Holmes County.

New Route 30 makes me both happy and sad. I guess I'm happy for the ability to quickly commute to the stores on the north end of Wooster where I can browse in a new Pier 1 and Kohls. But I still remember seeing a dead Canada Goose on a once-quiet road where the construction crews were working. I feel sad about lost farmlands and fields--the loss of the beautiful natural terrain of Ohio's rolling hills. This land will never look the same. It has been disturbed. For every square foot of paved-over land, there is a corresponding change in the flow of ground water. The sponge and clay of the earth's surface has been sealed off forever. I wonder if the land feels suffocated by all this asphalt.

Someone pointed out that this latest version of the Lincoln Highway--U.S. #30--is the third. If I try, I can find small remains of the oldest 30. The next one is still accessible but I'll probably only go that way when I want to visit one of the small businesses. They will no doubt struggle to stay alive with fewer potential drive-by customers on a daily basis. From New 30, I see the backs of buildings I recognized before only from the front. I drive over new bridges that span roads on which I still travel. I'm denied access where the new road is still under construction. I have no choice but to accept the new road with its limitations and its expansion. Eminent domain has re-shaped my landscape.

Terry Tempest Williams once said that one of the most radical acts in our time might be to stay at home. Of course, I heard her talk about this at a lecture at the College of Wooster--thousands of miles from her native Utah! But she has a point. Every day we make choices about where we go, which roads we travel and how we get to where we're going. Maybe it's truly a radical thing I'm doing--staying home more, shopping close to home and learning to appreciate the wealth of my own back yard.

It was a girl named Dorothy who said: "We're not in Kansas anymore..." Only after some adventures on the yellow brick road, did she really understand what mattered most. "We're home, Toto, we're home."